


Bittlets

by HumanTrampoline



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1293967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanTrampoline/pseuds/HumanTrampoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small pieces of fic that don't really have anywhere else to go. Summaries within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recovering the Satellites

**Author's Note:**

> Steve/Tony, pre-slash, taking a small break at the end of the day. Title from Counting Crows song by the same name.

The coffee shop is small and Steve’s actually surprised Tony knows of it; it seems incredibly understated for his tastes. There’s a random assortment of armchairs scattered around the shop, each one a little more dilapidated than the last, but still comfortable despite it, given the number of college students they contain. The corner of the shop has what looks like a very small stage, with the walls on either side papered with fliers advertising band shows, theater performances, gallery openings, any assortment of things. Coffee permeates the air and the wall behind the counter contains a chalkboard covered in fanciful illustrations relating to the special of the day. Steve can’t help but grin at the stick figure chasing after a cup of coffee along the bottom edge of the board; it’s captioned ‘Running Latte!’ - ok, so he’s got a corny sense of humor.

When Tony had suggested getting coffee after leaving the museum, Steve had readily agreed. He still wasn’t sure why Tony had chosen to spend the afternoon meandering through MoMA with him but he would take any time that Tony was willing to offer. The billionaire was always busy with some project or another so time that could be spent together outside of the tower was hard to come by. The afternoon had been better than great, actually. Tony had groused about boredom initially, but it was the kind of irritation Steve was beginning to recognize as meaningless teasing. They had traded art knowledge as they’d moved through the paintings and sculptures. Tony had been surprisingly knowledgeable of Da Vinci and his works; in retrospect it made sense, one engineer’s admiration of another’s work. Now that the afternoon was winding into evening, Steve was unwilling to see the day end, hence they were now seated at one of the tables in the shop, Tony with a mug of the house roast and Steve with a vanilla latte.

It’s maybe ten minutes to seven when a young woman carrying a small guitar steps onto the tiny stage in the corner of the shop. She has short brown hair that catches red in the light; she pulls up a stool to the microphone, perches there with her guitar.

Steve nudges Tony and nods towards the stage.

“Think she’ll sing?”

Tony groans and makes to stand up. “No, Steve, come on. These kids never have any talent or if they do it’s all wasted on terrible navel gazing crap.”

“One song, Tony. Aren’t you always telling me how I need to work on my ‘cultural awareness’?” Steve stops him with a hand on his wrist and makes his best ‘puppy-face’. Tony scowls and Steve grins. He knows he’s won.

“Crappy open-mics are not required cultural knowledge.”

“Well, I think they are. She might even be good, how do you know?”

Tony opens his mouth to undoubtedly protest that he has statistical evidence that coffee shop singers are terrible but Steve quiets him with a look. The woman on stage has finished tuning her guitar and gives a small smile to the shop.

“Um. Hi.” Her voice is small, even with the microphone.

“This is a song from one of my favorite bands. I, uh, I hope I do it justice.”

She begins strumming and Steve naturally doesn’t recognize the tune, but he sees a flash of recognition on Tony’s face. They sit and listen as she starts to sing and Steve’s actually surprised. She’d sounded almost timid when she spoke but she’s not timid now. Her voice is simple and carries the song well; she’s not half-bad at the guitar, either. The lyrics talk about satellites and coming home to a sleepless town; a friend who doesn’t understand her own worth.

It sounds comforting but it makes him melancholy as well. It… Honestly, it makes him think of Tony. He glances sidelong at the genius and Tony looks absorbed in the music for once. The gold light of the shop catches in his hair, turning the darker brown to caramel. Not for the first time Steve thinks, a bit wistfully, _Beautiful_.

_“We only stay in orbit_   
_For a moment of time._   
_You’re everybody’s satellite,_   
_I wish that you were mine.”_


	2. Haunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short blurb inspired by Cap 2 promos. Title from Bastille's Haunt, from All This Bad Blood. Steve/Bucky, if you squint.

The sneer on his face. Just rage, that’s all that’s left. A stranger behind his best friend’s eyes. The guy who stood up for him, taught him how to box, helped him breathe through the harsh winters, and now Bucky **is** winter. All ice and sharp edges and biting cold and things long dead; a force of nature whose only intent is to kill. All Steve wants to do is save him. Pull Bucky out of this horror story that his life has become, attempt to thaw the frost and pray that he can remember who he is. Remember who he was. Bucky doesn’t even recognize him now except as a threat. An enemy to be eliminated. Peggy had said ‘ _Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice._ ’ There’s no way any of this was Buck’s choice. No way in hell that this weapon he’s become—  
  


After Bucky’s fall- not death, it’s bitter knowledge now that death would have been a kindness- Peggy had tried to tell him that his guilt was unfounded, tried to comfort him with ‘you did everything you could’. Words about mutual respect and belief. ‘ _He must have thought you were worth it._ ’ Nothing could be worth this. It really is Steve’s fault. If only he’d been faster, or stronger, or- Jesus. Surely there was something he could have done. Surely there’s _something_ he can do now. Bucky recovers from Steve’s most recent blow and rears back to strike.  
  


_Please God, I will never ask again, please, God, just let me save him.  
  
_

_He’s all I have left._


	3. Old Pipes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Bucky
> 
> Bucky is a jerk, Barton is an instigator, and Steve is ok with all of this. Eventually.
> 
> Inspired by this post on tumblr: http://directorshellhead.tumblr.com/post/82734300887/the-wordbutler-fuckoffchrisevans-fuck-this

Bucky’s really starting to wonder if Steve is  _ever_  going to figure it out. Four (about to be five) times in two weeks? Steve can’t honestly think he’s really that dense. Right? Well, either way… He dutifully loads the soap in the dispenser, closes the dishwasher and waits. It’s not even a full load of dishes this time, he is giving Rogers  _plenty_  of clues. Right on cue, he can hear the pipes rattle as the shower kicks on. One minute. Two. He latches the door on the washer and turns the dial. Four minutes. Five, and…

“Bucky!” He hears the bathroom door open and close. It’s Steve’s ‘I’m an adult now so I’m not yelling but you are really trying my patience’ voice. He’s not that mad. Buck’s fully prepared to put on his ‘Oh but I swear it wasn’t us, Ms. Johnson’ face, it’s gotten him out of worse trouble than this. Fully prepared, that is, until Steve rounds the corner into the kitchen.

Steve. Uh, he didn’t really bother to towel off this time and he is. Very wet. And dripping. In very little clothing. No clothing, really, just the towel. And that is  _a lot_  of Steve, wet and dripping, in just the towel.

Bucky feels like he might actually swallow his tongue. He tries to recover, leans against the counter with his best innocently confused face, stares at his feet. “I forgot about the water again, didn’t I?” He hazards a glance up at Steve and Steve is Looking at him. Capital L, Looking. Before, he would have done anything to stop this kind of intense study. Now, he hopes Steve never stops looking at him like that. He takes it as a sign that he’s ready to try and hold on to this.

“That wasn’t even a full load of dishes.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “It wasn’t?”

“Nope. But this hasn’t really been about the dishes, has it?” Steve is crossing the small kitchen, securing the towel around his waist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Bucky knows the look on his own face is giving everything away. What the hell, Barton can have the 50 bucks; best money he’s ever spent.

By now Steve’s standing in front of him, leaning forward, bracing his arms on the counter behind him. Bucky takes a breath. “I mean, the first time was totally an accident, I swear, but then, well. You’re not exactly hard on the eyes, Rogers.”

“You are such an  _ass_.” And then Steve’s mouth is on his and this is their first kiss, warm and perfect, over seventy years from the home they knew, here in the dawning light of the home they’ll build together.


	4. Slowly Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Bucky
> 
> So I’m pretty sure this is less than 500 words but I polished it to a mirror shine, I feel like. I may someday flesh this out more or add to it but for now I just wanted to post a little bit of recovering!Bucky.

He’s getting better.

For a time it felt like that phrase was just something everyone said, something to offer empty comfort, or pass the time. A way to make polite conversation, once he could remember what that meant. Once he could _have_ a conversation. But now, he finally feels like he is actually making progress. Emotions aren’t quite so overwhelming, and there’s a range of them. It’s not just the constant buzz of fear and the crushing shadow of confusion, broken occasionally by swathes of rage, bitter and acidic on his tongue. He’s discovered he’s also capable of happiness and sorrow. Humor. He thinks the day he started to really feel human again was the first day he laughed. He can’t even remember what Sam had said, he just remembers being kind of shocked at the way laughing felt. Remembers looking over at Steve and his unfamiliar expression. Remembers Steve reaching for his hand, the metal one, and how casually he’d taken it in his own and given it a squeeze. Hope, that was the unfamiliarity in Steve’s face.  _Hope._  Bucky hadn’t had much experience with it over the past seventy years. But that afternoon in their Brooklyn apartment, listening to Sam grouse about the city and how hopeless their taste in baseball teams was, well, Bucky had the thought:  _maybe I will be ok again._

The nightmares are still horrible, still rob him of sleep regularly, but rather than pacing his empty room or lying in bed shaking and waiting for dawn, he’s learning he can ask for comfort. Though  _ask_ might be too strong a word- openly admitting weakness, even only to Steve, is still terrifying.  _Seek_  might be a better fit; he can accept company in the small hours of the morning and he’s less likely to flinch away when Steve touches him. He’s even gaining enough courage to lean against Steve on his own. Last night had been difficult, the dream a horrific combination of James Barnes’ past and the Winter Soldier’s sins. He’d stumbled out into the living room to collapse in a heap on the couch, pulling at the blanket folded over the back. Steve had materialized maybe ten minutes later, feigning surprise at finding him.

“D’ you want anything? Glass of water?”

He’d shaken his head but as Steve had turned away, headed to the kitchen, Bucky had reached out, hand around wrist.

“Stay?”

He just needed to remember he wasn’t alone. It was harder at night. Flashbacks during the day he could handle, with light and noise and other people around to distract him. At night, in the dark and the quiet, waking up from dreams…sometimes it felt like he was back in cryo, aware and miserably cold. Sometimes it felt like this new life was the dream; nightmares and ice his encroaching reality. Steve had settled next to him, a few inches space between them; Bucky’d taken a deep breath and slowly let himself close the gap, ending up curled against Steve’s side. His last memory of the night was of fingers slowly carding through his hair, Steve’s warmth bleeding through his thin sleep shirt.


End file.
